


Toy Soldier

by avidvampirehunter



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: (He Protec, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Angst, Dark Fairy Tale Elements, Drama, Dream Sex, Dreams vs. Reality, Eventual Smut, F/M, He Crac a Healthy Snac), Nutcracker AU, Nutcracker Kylo, Orphan Rey, Rated E for Exceptional Doll Sex, Romance, Slight Agalmatophilia, Slow Burn, Smut, candy porn, he attac
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-08-28 20:11:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16729953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avidvampirehunter/pseuds/avidvampirehunter
Summary: The wind whipped harshly beyond the window, the swirl of snow stirring like flaming embers in the darkness as its ghostly howl shivered through the walls. She cradled the object loosely in her hands, holding it up to her wandering gaze to find her stare returned by the dark, painted eyes of a man carved from polished wood.“What is this...?” she asked softly, the strength in her voice draining slowly away as she gazed into its stark, menacing face.“That?” Mr. Skywalker ambled closer, his brow furrowed and glowing in the flickering fireplace, tone shadowed as he replied with a grim, “Nothing. Nothing at all.”(A Reylo Nutcracker AU)





	1. The Nutcracker

**Author's Note:**

> I have no explanation, other than it was the perfect season for it, and the idea of a Nutcracker Kylo got away from me. I blame group chats for letting me get out of control (blessings, thank you).
> 
> This story is based on the original story of the Nutcracker Prince, in which Rey plays Marie (Clara) and Ben plays the Nutcracker Prince—but with my own twist (i.e. oh look, sex!). 
> 
> But whichever version of the story you prefer, I hope you enjoy! *hugs*

* * *

**ENGLAND**

**1892**

* * *

Her eyes flitted to the changing world beyond the stagecoach, the bump and rattle of old wheels clanging beneath her. Her rump, for a moment, lifted from the seat, forcing her hand against the door to keep herself from falling over.

She glanced back, out into the sprawling English countryside, fields cloaked with a thin layer of snow. It was the type of snow that clung to the dead blades of grass and bristling thickets—even as it melted upon touching the northward road. For the barest of seconds a wind blew along the drift, flurries spinning before her eyes, taking the shape of dancers.

But in a blink they were gone, and the coach eased, horses tugging the carriage into a thin curtain of sparse woodland.

Rey, a tall, handsome woman of nineteen, leaned forward. But as much as she leaned, or swayed, or tilted, she could not see where the horses began—only study how the powdery snow clung still and silent to the trees, their bright flecks like the trailing eyes of owls, perched and patient atop their branches. Were she not alone, she may have remarked on the starkness of its beauty, but still she shivered, as it haunted her all the same.

She emerged from the close confines of the carriage as soon as it halted, her slippers bled by cold and frost. Her modest gown stirred the snow beneath her as she moved to take her belongings.

She ascended the steps, her eyes wandering over the shadowy, desolate panes of the mansion windows. Snow lingered on their ridges, glazed with ice, reminding her to take care not to slip.

It was at this time that the driver snapped his reins, leading the stagecoach away and leaving her alone in the white silence

Swallowing her nerve, Rey reached out, slamming the rotting iron of the knocker into the door. She smoothed her skirt as best she could as she waited; though not normally one to fuss, a meeting like this would require at least _some_ level of decorum.

The door creaked open, drawing her attention to the blending shadows as a man, his hair blinding steadily with age, beard scraggly and unwashed, appeared. He peered at her with eyes bluer than the the ice crusting his windowsills, and seemed in an even colder mood.

“Are you the girl they sent?”

Rey, were she at the mill, may have retorted with some comment such as _Why, were you expecting another?_ But she held her tongue. “Yes. Unkar Plutt sent me.” She offered her chilly hand—as she had often seen respectable women do. “I’m Rey.”

He grunted at her, gruff and dismissive, before turning away and striding back into the house. “Let’s get this over with.”

Her hand remained extended for a moment before she bid it fall to her side, unshaken. Off-put yet determined, she entered the house carefully, tapping the snow from her feet before following him through the dark and narrow hall.

The walls loomed overhead, lined with portraits of ancestors and scenery, woodlands and mountains and queens she had seen in paintings before, but never bothered memorize.

Rey, an orphan plucked from the London streets, was abandoned by drunkards fourteen years prior. Since then she had taken occupancy in a workhouse mill, shining shoes and sewing hems until her fingers turned blue—from effort or dye, she never had the energy to decide. The millhouse owner, Unkar Plutt—a portly man of indefinite age—saw fit to allow commingling between the sexes, in which Rey learned—with no small amount of pride—how to fend off assailants using no more than the leg of a table.

It was for this reason that Rey found herself walking through the halls of Skywalker Estate, her hand absentmindedly feeling at her hair. One of the men had cut it to her shoulder. T’was a perfect excuse to lay waste to his nose. And gut. And groin.

But, regardless of her victory, Rey was deemed a troubled woman. An orphan in need of care and comfort for the holiday—before inevitably returning to work with a “clear mind and heart.” It all would seem quite preposterous to Rey, were meals not included.

The hall lead to a wide sitting room, lit in muddled whites from the tall, cloudy windows. The fireplace crackled and smelled of charred yule, and the furniture seemed well kempt, if not slightly dusty—save for, of course, what must have been the man's chair, which he sat heavily into with a heaving sigh of effort.

“I am Luke Skywalker,” he grunted, beginning to stuff a portly pipe. His focus remained on it rather than Rey as he continued, “Owner of this property, and your charge. It is my understanding that you will remain with me from Christmas Eve to New Year's Day.” His eyes flitted to her, startlingly blue. “Correct?”

Rey nods. “Yes, sir.”

“Ahuh,” he mumbled, sipping his pipe with pensive puffs. After a moment, he gestured to the hall opposite where they entered, which was, impossibly, darker than the last. “Down the hall. Last to the right. You’ll sleep there—but not _one peep_ from you after twenty-one hundred hours,” he said, punctuating his words with a warning jut of his pipetail.

“Of course, Sir,” Rey nodded again, more like a bow.

When he gestured for her to go, she clutched tightly to her belongings and fled, slowing only when the light drained too far for her to see her slippered feet. She held her hand out to the wall, feeling the soft wallpaper curl and catch under her fingertips. An odd grace, she felt, as she tip-toed through the darkness, her arm outstretched in an almost accidental grace—as if she were dancing with someone unseen.

The cool touch of brass reminded her of her goal, and she tentatively turned on the gaslight. A woman at the end of the hall suddenly appeared, and Rey jumped, realizing only a moment later that she had been frightened by her own reflection.

Scoffing at herself for her silliness, but still resolved not to look up again, Rey paced quickly toward the room that Mr. Skywalker deemed hers. She found another gaslamp and lit it, watching as soft light flooded the room. Her heart drowned in it, her eyes bulging at the sight of a four-poster bed, covered in linens and quilts.

Shocked, Rey barked an unladylike gasp of glee, dropping her belongings to pitch herself across the room and land hard on the bed. She rolled onto her back, spreading her arms wide, relishing the space.

“Merry Christmas, Rey,” she whispered, unable to withhold her pleasured grin.

* * *

The evening settled quickly overhead, the sun falling as it tended to do whenever Winter cast its spell over time's unstoppable power. The fire crackled and popped in the dining hall, flickering against the bare, shining mahogany of the table.

Rey lifted the spoon to her mouth, the heady broth of mock-turtle soup passing her lips with a politely-subdued slurp. She glanced up, over the mile of distance between her and Luke Skywalker, studying him when—she thought—he wasn’t aware.

The house was dark and empty, though not in disarray. It was tidy save for cobwebs and an amass of newspapers gathered in numerous rooms. Rey discovered this and more in her brief exploration through the estate; It was quite thrilling, to do such a thing without the company of her griping millhouse management.

She wondered at Mr. Skywalker as they ate, bits of steamed carrot dropping into his short beard, going unnoticed.

Though his house had many spare rooms, they were dusty and unused. And as she wondered, she wondered even more about the long path to his house, and whether anyone but him had tread there for many years.

“Your soup is getting cold,” he grunted, startling her.

Rey stirred her broth, shy at being caught staring. It had been half-freezing when she’d received it, but may it ever be beyond her to complain about a free meal. She took a bite.

Luke lifted his bowl, swallowing the last remnants with heavy drags, as though he were drinking from a flask. When finished, he slammed it down, wiping at his mouth—blessedly capturing the stray carrot in his wake.

The silence, while appreciated, settled fitfully within Rey, causing her to watch warily as he rose to his feet, trekking over to the fireplace. She watched as he pulled a box from the mantle, plucking out a wrapped chocolate from within.

As though feeling her eyes on him, Luke turned. Rey hurriedly drew her gaze away, returning to her soup as though having witnessed nothing at all. It was with determination that she did so, as to convince him she was an orphan, not a dog, and would be quite satisfied never begging like one, thank you very much.

So it surprised her when pinched fingers set the chocolate down beside her bowl—gently, as if in offering.

When she looked up into his eyes she saw the windows of his house. Dark, shaded, and desolate.

She accepted it, curling it into her hand. “Thank you, Sir.”

“Just Luke is fine,” he encouraged, gentleness rapidly waning.

Rey nodded, thinking more on when it would be appropriate to unwrap the temptation in her hand than his bristling attitude.

As he departed to smoke his pipe in the sitting room, Rey managed the restraint to finish her cold soup—and even bring the dishware to the kitchens—before tearing open the wrappings. She tossed the paper aside and closed her eyes, bringing the chocolate to her nose, inhaling deeply.

Very few times had Rey been given the opportunity to savor chocolate. But even so, she could tell that _this_ piece was sweet and milky, likely to melt on her tongue. And when she pressed it to her lips, the heat of her breath molding the syrupy skin to her flesh, she nearly moaned with listless ecstacy. She ate it soon after, in one bite, chewing slowly as she rested against the countertop, knowing that she could most certainly get used to _this._

* * *

Rey entered the sitting room in a way she knew, as all humans knew—a way that sought heat and company.

Luke sat in his chair, his legs elegantly crossed as he leafed through a paper that was likely older than his rapture let on.

“It’s snowing,” Rey noticed with gleaming positivity, lingering by the windows. Snow swirled beyond, falling in steady clumps. Each one soared like downed stars, streaking through the night, and she wondered if they could be wished upon so easily.

“So it is,” Luke agreed blandly, not looking up from his paper.

Rey only frowned at him for a moment before reminding herself that not all people were meant to enjoy such things. Instead she let her eyes linger on the undressed conifer loitering in the corner. It was bristled and full, but she did not know its name.

So she asked, “What tree is that?”

Luke glanced at her, then the tree, as if having forgotten either existed. “A Nordman, I believe. Whatever it was cost me ten shillings,” he sighed. “Shed all over the carpet, damn thing. It was my sister’s idea.”

 _His sister?_ Rey blinked. _So he does have family._

Luke coughed at his paper and reached out to take his pipe from the table. But when he opened his tobacco box, he frowned. “Damn,” he grumbled. Looking up, he scanned Rey up and down with as much consideration as a man might when purchasing a horse. “Say, you are quite tall for a woman.”

Rey didn’t know whether to feel proud or offended, so she shrugged her shoulders, committing to neither. “I suppose.”

“Hm,” Luke grunted, pointing towards a nearby cupboard. “Up in the cabinet. On the left. I have an unopened tobacco box.”

He didn’t bother ordering her to retrieve it for him. Rey understood, moving to the cupboard. He coughed again—as though in desperate need to satisfy his lungs with the awful stuff. She hurried to open the door, pulling down the first box she could.

It was heavier than she might have assumed, but she carted it over, holding it out to him. “Here.”

He nodded his thanks, words subdued by coughs as he accepted it from her. But he frowned at it, a puzzled look on his face. His eyes seemed to glow with recognition—and, if Rey did not know better, she may have seen horror there, as well.

“Not this one,” Luke insisted with a rasp, pushing it back at her. He stood up, stalking impatiently over to the cabinet and rustling through its contents.

Rey, normally a woman of similar impatience and ire, did not pay attention to Luke as he grumbled and withdrew that which he sought. Instead, she looked down at the box in her hand, running her fingers over its finely-carved surface. Swirling patterns etched the corners like vines, and she slid the lid from its lock at the base, pushing it open.

She did not feel Luke Skywalker’s eyes fix on her as she set the box aside, taking what lie within into her ignorant grasp.

The wind whipped harshly beyond the window, the swirl of snow stirring like flaming embers in the darkness as its ghostly howl shivered through the walls. She cradled the object loosely in her hands, holding it up to her wandering gaze to find her stare returned by the dark, painted eyes of a man carved from polished wood.

“What is this...?” she asked softly, the strength in her voice draining slowly away as she gazed into its stark, menacing face.

“That?” Mr. Skywalker ambled closer, his brow furrowed and glowing in the flickering fireplace, tone shadowed as he replied with a grim, “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

Rey, lost in her fascination, believed him—yet doubted such an intricate design could truly be  _nothing._ “Where did it come from?”

“It was a gift,” Luke intoned lowly, rubbing the short of his beard. “From my sister. She entrusted it to me long ago.”

Rey studied it further, wetting her chapped lip as she touched the softness of the doll’s raven hair. It felt so real under her hand, thick and well-kempt. As she looked more she realized that it was dressed in a soldier’s uniform, with a sharp nose and bared teeth.

“A nutcracker?” Rey murmured, looking questioningly to Luke.

He nodded distractedly, his eyes trained unwaveringly on the nutcracker. “Yes.”

She turned the nutcracker doll in her hands, her eyes sweeping down its thick arms and curled, gloved fists, one of which it held aloft and notably empty.

“Where’s his sword?” she asked, staring into the hole of its clenched fingers.

“Lost,” Luke answered quickly, ripping himself from her side, shoving the tail of his pipe between his lips. As he separated, he looked to the large grandfather clock, the tall hand coming close to its apex. As if to ensure time were not against him, he pulled a pocketwatch from his vest pocket, grunted, and clacked it shut. “It’s late. I shall retire for the night.”

Rey, at the thought of sleep, yawned into her hand. “What about him?” she asked, holding the nutcracker out.

Luke frowned at her, then at the doll, as though imagining taking it from her grasp—only to toss it over his shoulder. “I couldn’t care less what you do with that...” he scrunched his nose, _“thing._ Goodnight.”

His farewell was neither fair nor well-meant, dripping with newfound exhaustion. He left her no room for reply as he ambled into the darkened hallway, leaving her alone.

The heat of the fire glazed along Rey’s skin, keeping bodiless company as she returned her eyes to the nutcracker. He was heavy, bulky in her hand, his appearance almost… youthful. He lacked the beard seen most often on such things, but his teeth glimmered white in the light of flames, brow drawn angrily, as though a warning to all not to come near.

But it was his painted eyes that captivated her most—they did not look glazed or distant, but were intricately designed in shades of darkest amber, his pupils perfectly rounded and large, blending and consuming. Were it not for his persistent sneer, Rey thought, he would have made a handsome doll.

As she held it steadily, something in the air changed—a static charge ground through the room, as though heaven and earth scraped against one another, with her caught between. In it the fire roared, cracking the log and sending embers dancing in her vision.

And, impossibly, the face of the nutcracker moved with it, his expression, for only a moment, looking more alive and angered than ever before.

The grandfather clock boomed, startling her as the face appeared and disappeared faster than she could blink. She jumped, her grip on him slipping, and he fell to the floor with a splintering clatter.

Rey gasped, covering her mouth as the clock continued to chime. “Oh, no,” she murmured, thinking of how this had been a gift, an entrusted relic to her generous, reclusive host—of how reckless and silly she had been. She crouched down to take him carefully in her hands. “No,” she whispered mournfully, her heart heavy as she beheld him.

A fissure had opened in his face, over his cheek, the slightest of cracks etched into the wooden finish. She ran her thumb over it in silent apology, and, thinking fast, tore at the hem of her ratty gown. She rose and padded away from the clock, letting the fire burn behind her as she carefully moved the ribbon of cloth under the nutcracker’s jaw. Her feet led her to her—Skywalker’s—room, where she fumbled to switch on the gas-lamp at her bedside table, and sat gingerly down.

“There,” she whispered, tightly fastening the knot. Though a quick job, she attempted a reassuring smile at the doll’s face. “That should hold you together for the night.”

He did not reply.

Sighing, Rey looked about for a place to put him. She settled for the mantelpiece above the dreary fireplace, and set him before a mounted sword that looked too ancient to be useful for any more than decoration.

Taking a step back, she appraised him. He seemed regal, standing high with squared shoulders, gaze unquestioned and stern, despite the dressings Rey had given him. Her heart pounded in what she was sure to be anxiety, and spent her time in the washroom changing into her poor slip of a nightgown and wetting her face practising sincere apologies—preparing herself to have her time at the Skywalker Estate cut drastically short.

It would have been no surprise.

She went to bed and fell asleep with such fitful thoughts. The night waxed on as her mind unraveled itself to the dark abyss of a dreamless rest.

Until she heard it.

The slightest scraping sound awoke her. Thinking the worst, she reached over to ignite the lamp, scrubbing her eyes and looking towards the sound.

Mice—the largest mice she ever saw—were chewing at the nutcracker’s body. They had seemingly pulled it to the floor, and had begun gnawing at his side, his shoulder, and his opposite arm.

“Oi!” Rey cried out. Undeterred, they continued their gnoshing. Filled with a righteous, protective anger, Rey scrambled under her sheets, pulling her slipper from her foot and chucking it at the mice. “Get away!”

It was an excellent shot, striking one of the mice at its ear. They bristled and scurried off, but one took the makeshift bandage in its teeth, and pulled the nutcracker towards the gasping emptiness of the hall.

Rey did not think, only lurched from her bed, sweeping her slipper in hand and chasing after the vermin with a hunter’s gleam in her eye. She snarled and threw again, but did not see where the slipper went, and slid over the carpet and into the hall—colliding with the mirror.

It shattered at the impact of her body, and she felt a sharp sting in her arm. The earth lurched from under her once more, the air scraping against her skull, and she collapsed, unable to bear its pressure.

The darkness swallowed her up, and as the earth shifted she was unaware of a presence, strange yet familiar, looming over her.

* * *

When she awoke the next morning, her mind swam terribly, as though wracked with vengeful nightmares. She sat up and sunlight streamed in from the window, illuminating the dust as it danced lazily through the air.

Her arm itched, suddenly, and she moved to scratch it—but found bound over her skin the torn cloth of her gown. The one she'd...

She blinked at it, comprehension slipping from her, until she looked at the fireplace. The doll stood, his face impassive, held together by nothing.

The cloth was gone.

But the nutcracker had not moved. She stared at him, and he at her—betraying nothing.

Nothing at all.


	2. The Tree

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! It has been quite a while! I apologize for the wait. Due to the busy season I wasn't able to give as much priority to this story as I'd hoped. Thank you all for being so patient; please enjoy!

It was the sound of breaking glass that tore her attention away from the nutcracker, the depth of her burgeoning horror redirected to the unfamiliarity of her surroundings.

In a blink she recalled all that had transpired the night before: Arriving at the shadowy Skywalker Estate, partaking of dinner and sweets before retiring to bed so fitfully on the eve of this, Christmas Day—

_ Christmas Day! _

She popped out of bed with a flourish, tugging her robe quickly over her nightgown as she hurried from the bedroom, following the sound of rustling, movement, and chatter. She wondered for the barest of moments if the old man had become the victim of some holiday invasion—and considered taking one of the mounted candlesticks for a weapon—before she entered the sitting room to a surprising sight.

A woman, short and regal of posture despite the slight taper of her neck, stood before the tree, now upright and more splendorous in size. 

Rey studied her for much too long to be appropriate without one’s knowledge, but could not draw her eyes from the velvet shine of her plum-shaded gown, nor the long, silken gloves veiling her arms in a modest cream. 

The morning light seemed to shine more brightly through the windowpanes as the woman turned, her eyes dark and wide as they settled on Rey. “Oh!” she exclaimed softly, as though at last realizing she was not alone. Something shimmered in her eyes then, like a flurry of snow, and she held her hand aloft for this new company of youth—the other resting on her cane. “You must be Rey.”

Left to smile at this woman’s greeting—such a stark comparison to that of Mister Skywalker—Rey held her robe carefully closed over her breast, and took the woman’s hand. “Yes. Are you—?”

“I am,” the woman interrupted with a polite, yet tired, sigh. “I apologize for my brother. He has become rather distant in these recent years; not so polite as to warn you of my coming. Please, call me Leia.”

“‘Leia,’” Rey repeated with a nod. “Nice to meet you.”

Leia did not release Rey’s hand immediately, instead scrutinizing her with a quiet, piercing gaze. “Where are you from, Rey?”

Startled, Rey blinked, opening her mouth to reply just as Luke Skywalker entered the room, clutching a broom as though it were a monk’s staff.

“Damn glass ornaments…” he grumbled from behind his growing beard, setting to sweeping up the scattered shards not far from Leia’s feet. “I warned you: it’s only a matter of time before these things break.”

“You and your time,” Leia chided.

Rey’s eyes fell to the sweep of the broom, entranced as she was by the sliding scarlet remains of this lost little orb, and felt inquisitiveness rise through her like chimney smoke. “What are the ornaments for?”

“For decorating the tree, of course,” Luke replied stiffly, ignoring her.

“It’s tradition,” Leia elaborated, leading Rey away from the carnage. Rey withdrew her hand and walked steadily beside her, mindful—if not curious—of the woman’s cane. “Every year, on Christmas Day, I come out to the country to pester my dearest twin brother.” She waved her hand with a dismissive type of demure happiness. “And we celebrate as the English do.”

“You don’t sound very English,” Rey noted, realizing too late that she may have overstepped the boundary of her manners. Although it was quite true; their accents were queer to her.

But Leia only chuckled, her gaze somewhere far away. “Indeed. We are not English.”

Before Rey could make any attempt at small talk about origins, of which she held  _ no  _ interest in discussing her own, Luke seemed to glean new energy, his voice snapping through the air. “Are you to leave me to do this on my own, then?”

Leia turned and eased herself onto the dusty couch, her hands on the head of her cane, a picture of perfect superiority as she gazed upon her brother. “I had planned on it. But, seeing as you have company…”

“Yes, yes,” Luke grumbled, turning his eyes onto Rey. “Go on, then,” he said, waving off to the hall from whence she came. “Get dressed and come back here. I want this finished before dinner.”

“Oh come now, Luke,” Leia urged softly. “An opportunity to share the joys of the holiday should be savored. I’m sure we could stretch this out until supper. I hear there is to be more snow after nightfall.”

“I’d rather not waste the time…”

As they bickered, Rey did as she was instructed, and returned to her room. She rooted through her suitcase for her other gown—as she only possessed two—and began to disrobe. 

While she did, a sudden chill raced along her spine. Holding the cloth to conceal her breasts, she again cast a wary look upon the nutcracker. Still, it had not moved, nor betrayed anything but a growling countenance of wooden wrath, and yet this did not ease the sensation of…

“Don’t be daft,” Rey scolded herself, scoffing at her foolishness. 

And yet, nevertheless, she dressed facing away from the mantelpiece.

* * *

Dinner came and went while the tree remained, mostly, naked. Rey found herself hefting the boxes from the cellar alone, Luke complaining about his back. Of course, this did not bemuse Rey, who decided only to feel the gratitude of, for once, working in a warm building.

Warmth did not come solely from temperature—as time wore on, Rey setting to admiring the ornaments and draping them in the places neither hosts could reach, she overheard the conversations of the mysterious Skywalker twins. 

They chatted about politics and the economy, two things of which Rey knew little about, and while they disagreed on many points, their speech was speckled with laughter and the lilting sighs of nostalgic memory as they came to a mutual conclusion that human beings—or, in their words, “mortals”—are inevitably bound to failure.

The darkness fell as Leia arose, hobbling to the kitchens. Rey followed her, as she was requested, and the women spent the hour speaking of food and different preparations for such an intimate Christmas supper. It seemed that the woman had brought a ham with her, along with plum pudding and other such delights, making Rey’s mouth water and flood with temptation.

The three of them ate together in companionable silence, interrupted only by the occasional probing question from Leia. While not intimate nor rude, they were quite… perceptive. For instance, the woman had looked Rey in the eye and said, “Your hair seems quite short. Did you cut it?”

Self-consciously, Rey had reached to the hair lying limp just above her collarbone. “No. Men with scissors, from the mill,” she elaborated.

“Mm, I doubt it was consensual,” Leia had frowned.

“It was not, ma’am, no,” Rey murmured, reaching for another fresh, steaming roll. It flaked like snow as she cracked it open. “That’s why I’m here. Mister Skywalker—” Leia had given her a look, nearly making her sheepish, “— _ Luke,  _ is my sanctuary for the holiday.”

Leia had then shifted such a look to her brother, and it did not harden; though it was close. “How thoughtful of the workhouse mill.”

Rey did not reply, knowing the maltreatment and horrors of the mill and decidedly keeping it to herself. 

And, to her own horror and wonder, the recollection had not put her off her appetite in the slightest.

* * *

The fireplace roared in the sitting room, illuminating each of the specters as Rey teetered atop the ladder, affixing the final ornament into place. “There! That’s it!” she exclaimed, a smile daring to bloom on her face. “How does it look?”

Luke only huffed, but the bright of his eyes, for the briefest of moments, flashed in pleasantry. “Finished. Finally.”

“Oh, hush,” Leia scolded, smacking him on the arm. She hobbled towards the tall cabinet as she spoke, her voice hoarse from laughter—or, perhaps, years of smoking pipe? “It looks divine, Rey. Just needs one last touch…”

Rey and Luke both held wide eyes as the woman opened the cupboard, reaching blindly up, feeling around. 

Luke stepped forward. “Leia, it wouldn’t be wise—”

“Where is he?” she asked, turning to her brother in a slow, accusing wheel of gathering passion, her gaze boring darkly, deeply into him. From above Rey watched, her lips parted in a rapidly rising terror as the older woman stamped her cane against the carpet.  _ “Where is he?!” _

He straightened, his shoulders squared. _ "It,”  _ Luke hissed, “should not  _ concern  _ you tonight.”

As if broken from a nightmarish stupor, Leia looked up, and Luke with her. They both seemed to remember Rey's presence, their lips flattened, gaze almost…  _ fearful. _

“Is it the nutcracker?” Rey asked, unmoving from above, their looks having frozen her into place. 

Leia’s face unscrews from the pained expression, filled now with a sudden hope—and perplexity. “How is it you know, Rey?”

At last Rey found the will to climb down, thinking herself safe. A shiver ran down her spine recalling the peculiar events of last night—how when the clock struck, the doll’s face had seemed to come to life, and later, her wound curiously wrapped, and his place upon the mantle had been restored—and to all of these things, she decided not to specify. “I found it last night, with Mister Skywalker. I…” she looked down, ashamed. “I broke it.”

Luke tensed, but did not seem surprised. He laid his arm upon his sister’s shoulder. “Early this morning I found him and Rey in the hall.” He lifted a salty brow to the girl. “It appears that the nutcracker wasn’t the  _ only  _ thing that was broken.”

Rey blinked. “You… You carried me back to my bed,” she said, more in search of affirmation than true question, for the words she spoke, each syllable, tasted like false truth.

“Of course,” he huffed, turning back to his chair, his face concealed from her view. “Who else?”

Rey now felt properly chastised for her mistakes, both of ruining his possessions and her own sanity. What strange sensations she had felt, all to nothing more than silliness.

Perhaps the vision of rats had been a dream—or the bandaging on her arm done by Luke. And yet, as Leia watched her so steadily, as a lioness might a lone doe, Rey did not see this as a time for questioning him. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, holding Leia’s gaze. “I tried to fix him.”

Leia paused for a moment, then, “Is he in one piece, at least?”

Rey nodded emphatically.

This did not seem to relieve Leia so much as wound her. She leaned on her cane and took a lengthy match, approaching one of the many waiting candles with its fire. Her voice came distantly. “Tell me, Rey,” she murmured. “What do you know about the nutcracker?”

Rey, suddenly quite heavy, sat into the couch. The scent of Luke’s tobacco wafted about her, smelling almost sweet. “It…” she replied, thinking, “...It is a decoration for cracking nuts. They dress like soldiers,” she motions above her head, “with swords and busby hats.”

“Yes. Hungarian soldiers, typically,” Leia replies, the wick taking to the lonely flame. “But do you know what else?”

Considering the curious state of this woman, almost daring to question her mental state, Rey frowned. “What else is there?”

Leia smiled, and though Rey could not see, a look of sadness washed over her. “There is a story about the nutcracker,” she explained, lighting another candle, her arm swinging in an upward, almost angelic grace. “One that not many know.”

From her Rey sensed an air of playfulness amidst the warning, and, yearning to earn back the woman’s trust and respect, as much as satisfy her own curiosities, Rey inched closer upon the couch, leaning on its arm to catch every last movement. “I would love to hear it.”

Luke frowned, but Leia only turned, at last revealing that same, wistful, agonized smile. “Then I will tell you.”

* * *

_ A long time ago, in a kingdom far, far away…. _

_ There lived a family of royals, each blessed with powerful magic. They ruled in a kingdom where this magic took many forms—natural forms we can even find here, in snowflakes, in trees, and even in grains of sugar. _

_ The kingdom was happy, and many citizens were excited for the coming coronation of the prince. The prince was young, so well gifted with his family’s magic, and the king and queen both believed that he would make a fine ruler someday. _

_ But… as magic can be used for good, so too it can be used for evil. The Mouse King, an ancient man of a ruined kingdom, who used dark magic to speak with rats and insects, placed a curse that drove the young prince to a grave illness—an illness of wrath and insanity. _

_ Convinced that the dark magic cast upon him would also break its curse, the prince committed terrible crimes, each one worse than the last. “Seven steps back,” was the only reason he ever gave, and as though blind to all but achieving his goal, he fell so far into his depravity that the curse consumed him, and turned him into the nutcracker. Ever fearsome, ever guarding, ever helpless to behold that which he desired most.... _

* * *

“A curse?” Rey asked softly.

Leia nodded. “Indeed. Or, at least, that is the legend,” she emphasized, blowing out the charred match. 

Rey stood to admire the tree in all its majesty; the lights blazing, twinkling off the round, shining ornaments. The scent of pine and sweetness of tobacco danced around her, and yet, the disparity of the legend lingered. “What happened to his family…?”

“There was nothing they could do,” Luke sighed, as though this ordeal of sitting and listening had taxed him greatly. 

“He was kept hidden,” Leia replied tenderly, placing her hand over Rey’s arm, just above her concealed bandages, “until his curse could be broken. But, as the years passed and they found nothing, they…”

Rey searched the woman’s face, and while she could have wondered why this work of fiction had saddened such a woman so greatly, she instead realized the truth with striking, burning clarity. “They abandoned him.”

Again Leia nodded, her gaze one of shame before it was quickly masked. “Not all fairy tales end happily, Rey. Sometimes there is just nothing to be done but wait for a better story to be told.”

As she spoke, Rey became nearly dizzy with anger. Perhaps it was because of the nights when she told herself differently as she lied alone and cold in her bed, her belly empty, her heart aching for something more. Stories of old told of maidens whisked off to grand palaces, of adventure and romance, of happiness until the end.

She pulled away from these thoughts and this woman, briskly batting away the challenges they presented. “Excuse me. I’m…” she exhales, the dizziness persistent, the urge to flee compelling. “...I’m feeling very tired. Goodnight.” Remembering her manners, Rey summoned back her tenderness for Leia and the kindness she shared, taking her hands and squeezing. “Thank you for supper. It was lovely to meet you.” 

And with that, she left.

As she fled the room, Leia’s countenance shifted. She came to sit close to her brother, and after a long, quiet moment, she whispered, “Is it her?”

Luke pulled his pipe from his mouth, lips pursed beneath the grey of his short beard. “Maybe.” He offered it to her and she took it, taking a deep drag. Then he shrugged. “I’m sure we will know, in time.”

Leia did not reply, nor return the pipe.

Rey entered her chambers with heavy steps, sighing past the broken mirror.  She held a palm to her pounding head, hissing as a sudden ache took hold. It was the familiar slipping sensation she encountered the night before—as if the air and the earth were grinding her between their foundations. 

Lighting the fireplace, she stood, bracing against the mantlepiece for balance. She lifted her head and saw the nutcracker, his eyes as dark and full of anger as ever. 

And yet, for whatever crimes he had been accused of in Leia’s recount, she felt nothing but pity for the false man as her eyes followed the fissure in his cheek.  The ache transformed, then, gripping her tightly. A strange sensation caressed her, phantom hands trailing up her sides, wrapping around her neck. Words came out as she thought them, unrestrained. 

Unbound.

“You’re not a monster,” she murmured, a foreign heat rising in her veins. “And  _ I would never abandon you.” _

Wind from outside shook and rattled the windows, the flames in the fireplace rising—but only for a moment. The clock struck from deep within the house and Rey shivered, retiring into her nightgown and slipping between the sheets, letting the fire burn and warm away her wakefulness.

* * *

Music played, softly, chiming. Around and around she spun, dancing with someone unseen, lighter than air and yet, so worn, so _dense._

The darkness passed from her vision and Rey realized that she was... outdoors. 

Still in her nightclothes, the cold began to worm into her skin, snowflakes lazily falling through the canopy of the darkened wood.

Rey stepped forward, looking about curiously, holding her arms as she began to shiver. The forest floor glowed with a blanket of snow, touched only by moonlight. Her slippers crunched and her feet numbed as she went on, searching for any trace of light or buildings or chimney smoke that might lead her back to shelter.

How she had come here, she didn’t know. But her aching head had seemingly healed, the cold air almost relief on her once-heated skin. Still, as invited as she might have tried to make it seem, the danger of chill, the promise of an elemental death, remained ever present.

It did not feel like she was afraid of the cold, she realized later, as her every breath steamed out, puffing like a pumping train. No. It… felt as though she were… being  _ watched. _

Fear began to settle in her, burrowing into her flesh like ice, settling in her veins. She began to run, but the feeling only chased her, invisible eyes and teeth nipping at her heels. But whenever she looked over her shoulder, there was nothing to be seen.

A large branch obstructed her path and she ducked, the short length of her hair allowing her to pass blissfully free of entanglement. She placed her feet carefully since, taking great care not to risk injury. The forest seemed to go on forever, every inhale burning her lungs as the cold stole her breath.

Just as she prepared herself to try some new direction, something snapped ahead. She stopped. Snow fell to the ground from a branch, as though it had been disturbed. 

And as she chanced a step towards it, a shadowy figure emerged from behind the tree.

Rey jumped, seeing only a flash of black and the tall, looming threat of some beastly creature—its shoulders broad, its face twisted in rage. She ran back to whence she came, listening for the sound of whatever it was she saw, but heard nothing. 

She dared look back as she ran, seeing no footprints but her own in the snow, and, lost to her reassurance, ran directly into a tree.

Dizzy, hot with embarrassment and fear, Rey sat up from the snowy bed. A blackness had consumed her, for only a moment, and still, she did not die. Grateful yet eager for escape, she stood again, and continued on.

The beast did not follow her, and as she walked she contemplated what strange occurrences these were, whether she could be dreaming—or a madwoman.

It was then that she heard a sound, a whispering chorus in her ears calling,  _ This way, this way, fair lady, come this way. _

She obeyed, unable to resist the curious call, hopeful that whomever was responsible would come to her aid. Perhaps a warm mug of ovaltine, a hot fire to chase away the lingering frost gathering on her bare shoulders and fingertips.

The chorus grew louder.  _ Yes, yes, this way, this way, fair lady, come this way. _

Rey at last ventured upon a moonlit grove, where the snow had not touched the ground. The small field rested in a perfect sphere, a garden of small flowers frozen still in the white glow, the wind absent from their waiting bodies, as though asleep. 

The voices stopped and paused, some petering into vacant giggles of mirth.

At the center of the grove Rey beheld a ring of mushrooms, their caps as wide as toadstools. As she drew closer, a mouse hopped upon one, its little nose twitching as it stood on hind legs, sniffing at her.

Rey, amused, crouched, entranced by this little creature, so small and so helpless. She reached out to touch it, its beaded eyes watching, its ears perked, and before she could lay hand on it, the mouse opened its little jaws.

And screamed.

Human screams shrieked into Rey’s ears and she covered them, backing away as a hoard of mice wriggled from the grass, their slender bodies ghastly pale beneath the moon as they swarmed towards her feet. She stepped further and further back until she encountered the broad surface of what  _ must  _ have been a tree, and closed her eyes, surrendering herself at last to the madness that had finally devoured her soul.

But the limbs of the tree, or so she had thought, bent down, and swept her not into branches, but into  _ arms. _

Rey opened her eyes and looked up, the screaming at last subsided, leaving them in silence as she looked up into the stoic face of a man, his eyes burning into her with a simmering, horrible darkness—

—then promptly lost consciousness once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rey should have brain damage from all this fainting, omg. I hope she's okay.
> 
> Also a sidenote: "dinner" is the afternoon meal and "supper" is the evening meal. Hopefully that was clear (trying for historical accuracy—I never learn!)


	3. The Oath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your continued support! You're so amazing~ :D

The air shifted in a cold swath, the creak of wood echoing with the sounds of human screams.

Rey startled. Her fingers brushed thick, rotted cotton sheets, her eyes darting through the darkness as she sat up. Beneath her she felt the stiff springs of a mattress, and around her the cold wind seeped through the worn walls, the marrow of her bones.

Moonlight leaked through slant holes in the roof of whatever house she was in. The way she came alluded her, her last memory of nothing but the dark eyes of...

Frowning, Rey went very still, searching through the blackness until— _ there.  _

As her eyes adjusted to the low light of the moon, she saw a large shadow crouching before the foot of the bed, its face concealed by night. Swallowing her nerve, she chanced, “Where am I?”

The room was silent, and for that moment she thought herself both foolish and alone, until a voice called back. 

_ “You’re my guest.” _

The voice was soft and deep—a man’s. Rey shuddered, dreading the notion of waking in a strange man’s bed. All at once an irrepressible anxiety settled on her shoulders, curiosity, urgency, flaring wildly through her veins. 

The stale scent of mildew lingered in her nose as she huffed, “Who are you?”

The man did not reply.

Feeling his eyes on her did nothing to repress the shivering in her skin. Her hair rose on her bare arms, her hackles raised; she drew her knees closer to her body, shrinking away from him. “Show yourself,” she commanded.

Though she bore no authority over him, it seemed the opposite as the shadow grew loyally from the floor. The figure towered over the bed, the sound of his heavy boots creaking over the wooden foundations as he stepped slowly into the blue, streaming moonlight.

Rey froze where she lay upon the bed, her eyes wider than their sockets.

As she thought, this man was indeed the same who lifted her from the snow.  _ He must have spirited me,  _ she  realized, shocked by its possibility—and mortified by its thrill.

Studying him as he stood, his heated glare warmed the only sphere of her mind not frozen by the chill. “I know you,” she murmured.

He blinked, his stern features shifting with a soft, audible scrape. Were Rey more attentive to his expression than that sound, she may have noticed the way it gentled. 

Feeling brave, she stood to face him, to study him more closely. The man was taller than her by barely a head, a giant compared to most, his dark hair framing his slender jaw. The more she looked at him the more she noticed the texture of his skin,his face  pale and hard—peppered with marks and grooves, as if he were made of wood.

_ Made of wood. _

Rey stepped away, muffling her gasp. The air grated, the world spun around her, each shallow breath like water in her lungs. She recognized him fully now, from the black of his soldiers’ dress to the cragged fissure forever etched into his cheek. 

This man was not a man at all.

“The nutcracker…” she murmured, her eyes sweeping over him. “That’s… That’s impossible!”

“I beg to differ,” the nutcracker said, his voice a low rumble in her ears. His dark eyes trailed after her, his face hard and angry again. “Sit down.”

Rey frowned, but obeyed. As he moved through the room, in and out of the shadowy currents, she watched him.  _ This must be a dream,  _ she mused, rubbing her arms, the healing wound rigid beneath her fingertips.  _ A very odd, cold dream. _

Gloved fingers presented a tin cup to her. Her nose filled with the cold, metallic odor of water as she beheld and took it from him. 

“Drink.”

As Rey was convinced, this dream may as well be abided by. So she drank, relieved by the starkness of its soothing rush down her parched throat. She had run so long and so far, perhaps her phantom body had tricked itself into feeling something as wakeful as thirst.

“It almost feels real,” Rey scoffed, admiring the cup. It was battered and dull—amazing; rarely had her dreams ever been so vivid!

“You don’t know where you are,” the nutcracker mused openly, his tone leaving no room for disagreement, “do you?”

“I’m dreaming,” Rey rebuffed, her fears slowly waning. Her eyes scoured him brazenly now, as thoroughly as his own upon her person. Then they roamed along the tattered walls and strewn debris. “So this is a dream.”

He did not reply before distancing himself, his posture fixed eternally into a stiff slouch. She couldn’t make out his limbs or skin amidst the soldiers’ garb he wore, but it seemed as if, from what she had surmised, his hair, his lips, and his eyes were the only features baring any similarity to that of a living human. And when he sat he creaked, resting long fingers over his knees. 

“This is a nightmare,” he murmured dispassionately. “And you’re in it.”

As he spoke the words shivered through Rey, the memory of the screaming mouse returning to the forefront of her mind. Sitting further on the edge of the bed, she studied him, unable to restrain her intrigue. “What were those things?”

The nutcracker hesitated. “Mice.”

“They sounded like people.”

“People squeal like pigs, yet no one says pigs squeal like people,” he retorted heatedly, clearly on the brink of his patience. “What does it matter the noises they make?”

Not about to back down from some stranger’s—a doll’s, no less!—challenge, Rey stood, now holding ground over him. His lack of a weapon may have aided this sudden boldness, dream or no. “It matters because I want to know. I don’t need another reason to ask when this is  _ my  _ dream.”

His eyes flashed when they looked at her, his scowl withering. “...Very well, then. Just what  _ do  _ you want to know?”

Rey opened her mouth to speak, but could not summon any query that would satisfy her. The air shifted again, almost imperceptibly, guiding her tongue behind her teeth. On impulse, or perhaps lack of inspiration, she asked, “Why are we here?”

She could not read the expression that followed, only sense the same lingering hesitation in his reply. “You are here because you made a promise. And  _ I  _ am here,” he stood again, stepping closer, crowding her, “to make sure you keep it.”

Her expression pinched with confusion—this dream certainly had no intentions of simply being dreamt without threat or convolution. “You’re wrong. I made no promise,” Rey huffed. She held out her hand to stop him from coming too close, but her palm _thunked_ uselessly against solid wood, and the nutcracker did not budge.

As she stared dizzyingly at her failed hand, a large, gloved one rose to cover it. It was cold and hard, yet his voice was startlingly opposite. “Am I to think you dishonest when you claimed you would not abandon me?”

When she met his eyes she saw only darkness—a lulling, endless abyss of a soul no longer human. It frightened her. “Unhand me.”

He did not. The timbre of his every syllable struck through the cords of her muscles, holding her fast to his alien body. “Unless you lied,” he grounded. “But if you did, you would not be here—”

“I said  _ unhand  _ me!” Rey cried. Thinking fast, she slammed the cup against his face. His neck creaked and she slipped out of his grasp, gasping to discover that she had not only made an escape—she had spun his very head askew.

The nutcracker stumbled back, stunned, before lifting his hands to his head. Rey watched, mortified as he took hold of his temples and twisted until his scowling face was fronted once more.

He may have moved towards her, or perhaps it was merely the moon shrouded by a passing cloud. Regardless, Rey dashed for the door. Her heart pounded as her slippered feet nearly sent her sliding down the stairs, their wood wet and rotting under her steps. The air reeked of dour dust and mold as she made for the door.

The nutcracker’s heavy steps sounded behind her, her pulse strangling her throat as she struggled with the knob. It was jammed, but he had not locked it. Once, twice she slammed her body against the door, the third so full of chemical desperation that, as if by mercifully divine will, it swung wide for her. 

She did not think, only ran, and in doing so felt the air  _ and  _ earth shift. Before she could stop herself her foot sailed off the edge of the world—only to find that it was not the end at all, but a massive fissure in the ground.

Something hard wrapped around her wrist. Her body jolted, her shoulder screaming in pain as her feet struggled to keep purchase. She looked down into the fissure, its bottom glowing red as hellfire, then back to see what had kept her from falling into it.

The nutcracker held fast to her, his arm and body outstretched, his eyes wide. Shadows of his lashes loomed over his cheeks from the powerful moonlight as he stood rooted to the earth—her only foundation. 

“We’re not done yet,” he warned with tightening grip.

Breathing fast, Rey could not think. Was not falling meant to awaken one from dreams? She did not awaken—and here her heartbeat feels so real in her lungs, the terror more than any sleeping mind has ever bothered endure!

“This isn’t possible!” Rey roared. “You’re not real!”

“If I wasn’t real you would be dead,” he snarled, shaking her pointedly. 

Rey cried out for fear of falling into that pulsing abyss, his grip a damnable mercy. The wind began to howl around her, drowning out sound in this cursed place—what appeared to have once been a small village, torn in half by the earth. 

She turned her feet and held on to him, her back to the glow, not knowing whether he would let go. “What do you want?!”

A displeased sense of satisfaction cloaked him, his frown even more prominent despite. “I want  _ you,”  _ he growled. “I want you to fulfill your promise—to break this infernal curse on me!”

Blinking at the loose strands of hair flitting into her eyes, tears beginning to gather in resistance to them, she shook her head. “I can’t! I don’t know how!”

Again he snarled, as if animal, letting her slip, but not letting go.  _ “Swear it!”  _ h e boomed, his rage more violent than the unforgiving wind.

Swallowing herself, Rey met his eyes. They were dark, yes, but not black. 

From where she lay suspended by his dwindling compassion, she saw in those eyes a depth of color and patterns, as endless as the night, yet just as filled with stars.

The whisper left her without her knowing. “I swear it.”

Though she said what he had wished, his face contorted not with pleasure, but with pain. Cold and callous, he released her—and she fell screaming into the darkness.

* * *

The fall lasted all of two seconds.

The first, Rey felt betrayal course through her like venom, and terror seize her every vein and thought. She did not awaken, and she did not die.

The second, her back collided against a spongy hammock of softness and warmth. When she blinked at the cold moonlight up above, Rey remained still, frozen in shock.

A shadow slid down the side of the crevice, the ground bouncing under him as he landed not too far from where she lay upright, in awe of the peril she had evaded.

He looked smug as he walked up to her, looking down on her shaken features. “You will be more comfortable here,” he reported casually, as if he had not held her very life for ransom only moments before.

Rey scowled at him. “You tricked me.”

“It was not a trick,” he replied smoothly, squatting to the mossy floor. He leaned against the rocky wall across from her, the red glow catching in his scar. “You will keep to your promise, and I will keep to mine. No deceptions.”

Drawing her knees to her chest, Rey sighed. He had her beaten, and she was too exhausted to resist anymore. The heat of the strange ground bled slowly through her, each pulse a beat of comforting warmth. The wind could not reach them here. It was still and, for once, peaceful.

He continued to stare at her as she glared. “What do I have to do?”

He worked his jaw, the wood clacking and popping in and out of place.

“...You don’t know,” Rey realized aloud.

Furrowing his brow, the nutcracker’s pensive gaze morphed into one of an almost childish petulance, his full lips pouted in slight. “Seven steps forward.”

She considered him for a moment, then began to rise, before he waved his hand for her to sit.

As she did, he elaborated, “This curse was a cause of my own negligence. As a result, I lost my body.”

Rey glanced about his face, its strange texture drawing her curiosity. She wondered what it would be like to touch it. “What does that have to do with me?”

The way he looked at her was impenetrable, like a wall constructed before her in his eyes. “Your words unbound me. For years I was in darkness, and then…” his gaze burned into her with a surge of scarlet light, “...there was you.”

She breathed in, her lungs feeling a sudden deprivation, replenished with a warm dreg of cinnamon-spiced air. “Even if this wasn’t just some dream,” she murmured, “I still don’t see how I can help you. I don’t even know your name.”

Again, he hesitated, that look of pain resurfacing almost imperceptibly, until, “...Ben.”

The nutcracker’s surly shyness did not deter her. If anything, it only served to reaffirm her flimsy position. Summoning the last store of her manners, she smiled. “I’m Rey. From London.”

His lips parted as he regarded her, as if to suck in a breath, before they snapped shut, his resting glare finally settling once more into his wooden features. It was then that she realized he could not breathe at all.

And neither could she as he suddenly shifted to kneel before her, his head bowed.

“Wuh,” she cleared her throat. “What’s this?”

“My oath,” he replied darkly. His gloved hand tightened into a fist, the creak of leather raising the hairs on her arms. “A promise for a promise. Rey of London: Help me recover my body, and I will keep yours from harm. Anything you ask will be my command. I will be your willing slave.” His head dipped lower, his dark hair covering his face. "Free me from this pain, I beg of you..."

Rey looked away, scandalized by his brazen proclamations, but could not ignore the heat rising through her body, burning in her cheeks. 

She recalled from Leia’s story that the nutcracker had once been an honorable prince from a royal family, degenerated into a monster by the curse bestowed upon him.  Aside from his simmering anger and malice, she could see no blatant threat in the bow of his head, the clear adherence he held to words and their power. Thinking of all he had been made to do, she could not ignore his plea, his pain.

Perhaps she was not wise enough to try.

Not knowing what else to do, Rey crawled closer. He was as still as a statue, unmoving even as she reached out, laying hand on his head. The hair beneath her palm was real and soft, so silky that it frightened her. 

She drew her hand away. “I accept.”

His head snapped up, the creak of wood an audible relief, like the sigh of wind bending the boughs of a tree. Their faces were closer now, eyes level in the throbbing shadows, and in his eyes she saw something flicker, as fleeting as the dance of snow outside a darkened window.

Rey bit her lip and settled back onto the moss, sighing down into its tender bed. Its gentle light flared under the pressure of her body, the soft ambiance soothing her into a yawn. “But before anything… We should sleep…”

The nutcracker, Ben, gawked at her as she closed her eyes, nestling her cheek over folded hands. “Yes,” he murmured distractedly. “Rest. I will watch over you… Rey.”

But she did not hear him, already lost to sleep.


End file.
